YOU tell me, with a little scorn,
A pitying blame in look and touch,
Of conscious worldly-wisdom born,
That I am hopeful over much;
That all my swans are veriest geese,
My cheerfulness an easy vent
For animal spirits, and my peace
A cheap, contemptible content;
That it is shallow to be glad,
Idle to hope and vain to trust,
Because all good is mixed with bad,
And men are liars, and flesh is dust;
That wisdom grimly prophesies,
And sits distrustful and alert,
Peering with far, experienced eyes
For what may cheat and what may hurt.
I do not know if you are right;
But these I hold as certainties:
That God made day as well as night,
And joy as well as pain is his;
That if philosophy means doubt,
And wisdom boding discontents,
Men may do better far without
These all-divine accomplishments!
That souls are stronger to endure
The heavy woes which all may taste,
If, holding to God’s promise sure,
They wait his time, not making haste
To grieve, anticipating ill;
How shall they know what sweet, hid thing
He keeps in store for souls who still
Follow his beck unquestioning?
Joy is the lesson set for some,
For others pain best teacher is;
We know not which for us shall come,
But both are Heaven’s high ministries.
The swollen torrent rages high;
The path ahead is steep and wet.
What then? We still are safe and dry;
We need not cross that torrent yet!
Perhaps the waters may subside;
There may be paths which skirt the flood.
God holds our hand. With him for guide
We need not fear; for he is good.
Meanwhile there is the sun, the sky,
And life the joy, and love the zest;
And, spite of scorn and pity, I
Will taste to-day, and trust the rest.
“HE SHALL DRINK OF THE BROOK BY THE WAY.”
THE way is hot, the way is long,
’Tis weary hours to even-song,
And we must travel though we tire;
But all the time beside the road
Trickle the small, clear rills of God,
At hand for our desire.
Quick mercies, small amenities,
Brief moments of repose and ease,—
We stoop, and drink, and so fare on,
Unpausing, but re-nerved in strength
From hour to hour, until at length
Night falleth, and the day is done.
The birds sip of the wayside rill,
And raise their heads in praises, still
Upborne upon their flashing wings;
So drinking thus along the way,
Our little meed of thanks we pay
To Him who fills the water-springs,
And deals with equal tenderness
The larger mercies and the less:
“O Lord, of good the fountain free,
Close by our hard day’s journeying
Be thou the all-sufficing spring,
And hourly let us drink of thee.”